A Hundred and Broken
by Nerva al'Thor
Summary: (One-shot; Complete)(MadaTobirama; TobiramaMada) Tobirama only feels regret. Deep, deep regret that he never had the gall to be selfish, to spare the world from a madman's rage.


**.A Hundred and Broken**

(For _Michelle_ – whose Tobirama inspired this and made me sail the ship.  
And for _Lee_ – who also got me into this heartache of a mess to begin with.)

* * *

They say that in the Shinigami's belly there is hellfire and brimstone. Sulphur and monsters eviscerating you over and over. But actually that's not true. The Shinigami's belly is endless, each segment molding itself into the hell that fits each soul it devours.

For Tobirama Senju, hell is standing by the gates of Konoha, with the love of his life leaving him without saying good-bye, repeated over and over and over and over, endlessly, so that there is only regret for his death he knows is coming.

This is what it means to be devoured by Shinigami – you fight with your greatest regrets, endlessly, for as long as Time exists.

* * *

At eighteen years old, Tobirama Senju is naïve, thinks that he has everything figured out in the world, just because he's survived countless battles and saw all the horrors war has to offer – because there is nothing more horrifying than war, all the senseless deaths, bodies littering the field, adults and children reduced to nothing but anonymous corpses, rotting under the mush and mud, vultures circling overhead. At eighteen, he thinks that to survive war means surviving anything else the world has to pitch in his direction.

He does not know – has not yet wrapped his mind around the fact that not all battles end in corpses – that some battles end in death that transcends the physical plane; the kind of death that echoes throughout one's lifetime, in guilt and blame and sadness.

The Hidden Leaf is but a shoot springing up from the fertile earth, earth made rich and lush because of endless battles and blood watering the fields. He is a member of his brother's council, alongside the other representatives of their allied clans, the Sarutobi and Shimura, and of course, the unpredictable Uchiha, who have before this treaty, this truce, been their bitterest enemy.

As he sits by the long table in that primitive conference hall, arms folded, Tobirama sweeps a critical eye over their allies, rounding the room, only to come to a stop at the far end, and there sitting across his brother was the co-founder of this village, this volatile Madara Uchiha, branded insane by everyone else, capable of destroying a regiment by himself, the blue flame of his complete Susano'o blazing brighter than the stars and the sun.

At that age, Tobirama is finely aware of the macabre attraction the Uchiha has for him; he is aware of it in the way the man's gaze lingers, the way the man greets him with his name whispered with disdain laced with anger, and yet he can see it, that abnormal flame lingering behind gray irises. He does not understand it; he murdered the man's brother on the field, a casualty of war, and the only explanation is that this attraction, if it could be called that, had roots back in their earlier days, but in the end it wouldn't matter to Tobirama.

Nothing and nobody could understand the Uchiha at this time and age; a clan possessed by evil – hatred consuming their sanity the moment their eyes activate, that crimson-ebon swirl of the Sharingan.

But at that age, Tobirama was convinced he should be the middleman, the balancing factor between his brother and this unpredictable man his brother still considers his friend. He would be the bridge, so to speak, so peace could work, and so motivated by the welfare of the village, he decides to undertake the biggest mission of his life, to be fought not with kunai and Suiton jutsu, but only his wiles, charm – and perhaps, even his body.

* * *

He runs his plan to Sarutobi Sasuke – a simple enough plan, so to speak, it appeared to him at that time. He would be the invisible trap that would keep Madara Uchiha in the village – that he would take advantage of the man's unsaid attraction, perhaps reach him from there, make him stay in the village, and by accomplishing the feat, eliminate the greatest threat to the stability of the village so far.

It's a perfect trap, Sarutobi agrees, and they come to the conclusion that Tobirama will proceed with it – for what is a lone soldier sacrificed for the good of many – a sentiment that will be echoed a century later by a thirteen-year-old Uchiha when he destroys his own clan, shattering the fan, and with it ending the legacy of nine hundred years.

Deep inside, the mission repulses Tobirama – he is a man of traditional sensibilities and persuasions – love is for love's sake, not for the accomplishment of something so unrelated like keeping the peace for his brother's pipe dream. But he recognizes the urgency of the point – if Hashirama does not accomplish to end the wars now, nobody can, nobody will. They had to make this work, for they are on the brink of a golden world, and this – this, is the only chance they had.

* * *

There is a distinct magnificence he begrudgingly acknowledges, the dance of ebon hair unruly from root to tip, the broadness of the shoulders under austere traditional Uchiha clothing, of a pale neck hidden behind a high collar. There is a temper akin to quicksilver and hellfire, quick, quick to start and quick to fade, the introduction to the berserk battle-fury, something he has witnessed even before peace was had – of kama slashing down foe upon foe, the battle fan wielded with grace not made with human hands.

He is a moth, circling an uncontrolled, shivering flame, and yet he draws himself close, calling the flame's attention. In these hushed and snappish conversations, Tobirama sees in dark eyes that deep-seated madness, sees it firmly in root, entrenched in the most damaged of psyches. It manifests itself in the bursts of temper, in the uncouth curse words punctuating a sentence and syllable, it works its way deeper in the skin, in how a jaw clenches and how hunted eyes squint corners as if expecting a ghost.

Tobirama wonders on the wisdom of the task he has set upon himself – something hair-trigger cannot be saved, surely, not after years of loss and grief have made their marks, festered the disease that the eyes have inflicted. He knows it is a lost cause, knows that his plan is a frail countermeasure, something unproven and un-tested, and that the better option would be to let the Uchiha leave the village and meet him in the field, and there put an end to his threat.

But Tobirama never backs out on his word once given, and so he grits his teeth and extends his patience for how long it can be extended, as he joins the Uchiha when he can, walking alongside him by the streets of Konoha, witnessing the village expanse and take leave of the surrounding forest to reach further and further still. He is a shinobi, and he endures, as he knows he must. He made his choice, and he must accomplish the task.

* * *

Pity.

It is a word a shinobi of their time grows up not knowing, because a hesitation, half a second, spells one's death in battle, hearts thrown out of order and emotions running high, blinding rationality and pushing logic and strategy out of the window. That is the meaning of pity for their generation. What Tobirama doesn't expect is to be given the opportunity to re-examine the word – _pity _– that one evening he turns up by the Uchiha's doorstep and the man comes rushing at him, clinging to him like a rock against the tide, shivering, stammering about unseen horrors lurking in his house, waiting to ambush him. There is no warrior here, Tobirama thinks, surely not in this shivering man, not in this cowering person clutching at his clothes as if they're straws.

He asks what's wrong, and he's given more nonsense as an answer – words tumbling over each other in a senseless jumble, eyes resolutely turned away from the doorway of the pantry. Tobirama looks, and of course, he finds no ghoul nor phantasm nor ghost, nothing, just the empty doorway and the view of the boxes. He repeats his observation, but the man resolutely shakes his head, he trembles like a leaf tossed in the storm, and for a moment Tobirama worries, feels his instincts rise – what if this was a ruse, and there's a kunai going for his gut—

_There's nothing there_, he says, insists.

The mercurial temper strikes, and a fist collides against his face. A scream follows – that is what it is, isn't it, you don't understand, you don't, you don't see what these eyes see, how dare you judge me when you don't know even half of what it means to have these eyes, you don't, you don't, you don't, you—

And the door is slammed shut, and the Uchiha retreats back into the arms of his nightmares. The lights do not go out, well until sunrise.

* * *

It is these fits that convince Tobirama his task must succeed. He decides also that failure is not an option that one day Madara manifests the Susano'o in the middle of the crowded market street, sending the civilians in a flurry, scaring families half to death, and doubt surges anew from the allied clans. There is no peace to be found, they say, no peace in this settlement, for as long as Madara Uchiha is in it, what if he strikes us without warning, what if he murders our children while we sleep, _what if, what if, what if, what if_.

But Hashirama is adamant that his best friend can be cured; it is the first time he raises his voice and insists on the fact. Tobirama wishes he shares his brother's optimism, but Hashirama always had the ugly tendency to turn away from the truth when it ill-suited him, dallying and avoiding. There is no cure for that festering madness; he has seen just how deep it has gone – no cure for it, except death. The pressure upon his shoulders feels heavier, as that assembly ends and he finds himself, yet again, by the Uchiha' doorstep.

He is a contrast to the assembly ironically about him, Tobirama decides, as he's let into a home for the countless time – Madara is calm tonight, holding paintbrushes, having a blot of ink on his cheek. They don't talk, just exchange glances, and Tobirama sits on the couch and watches the Uchiha paint, and he remembers the words of the council.

_Madman, madman, madman. _

In that silence of watching artwork spring from hands that inflicted death, Tobirama comes to a decision.

_If nobody makes this work, nobody ever will. _

He rises, and the movement makes Madara pause, lift his brush from the paper. He turns his head and cranes his neck up at him, and Tobirama's trembling fingers find purchase on that fine neck, and he tips it up, up, up, and he dances into the other's lips.

The temper flares as he expects it to be, but this time, it's laced with something he has always guessed at but never confirmed. The tables are quick to turn on him, and as the ink spills uselessly onto the floor, Tobirama finds himself ungracefully pinned alongside that pooling black, and it is like this – like this he is taken, possessed, claimed, and in his gut there is a chill that tells him there cannot be any normal love here, and yet he allows it, allows himself to cross that final boundary, and for the first time he lets someone else twine with his chakra, and he feels that diseased mind lingering beneath the thin film of desire and lust, he feels it, and sees just how much damaged Madara is, and it terrifies him. It's too late, and together they reach the first of many conclusions, amidst panted breaths and sweat-slicked skin.

* * *

_"Are you the moth, or the flame?"  
"The moth. You are the flame."  
"No. You are the flame. I am the moth. Love is always the flame, and we, me – I am always the moth. No escape. Always destroyed."_

* * *

He does not know when the mission's boundaries start blurring into oblivion and inexistence. Spring, summer, fall and winter pass and repeat, pass and repeat, and Konoha reaches its full bloom, and Tobirama watches in quiet undisguised wonder as that madness slowly fades. He grows used to it, seeing those eyes change whenever he's nearby, whenever he arrives, whenever he presses close, and this, this makes him rethink what he knows of the Sharingan – these eyes that reflect feelings. When he looks in them now he does not see the eyes of that warrior he's killed in battle, when he looks, he sees only Madara – bruised and wounded, but _healing_, and he has to admit that it's working – this mission is working, ridiculous at it may sound, but its effects are unfurling right before his eyes.

It's summer when he first confirms that Madara has stopped seeing his ghosts, and with their disappearance a calm settles onto the Uchiha that he never thinks possible, and even Hashirama sees this and his brother is bursting with happiness for his friend. Madara makes no big fuss over his progress; he wakes early, sleeps little, goes to his quiet work in the Treasury of Konoha, there in his office he writes on his ledgers surrounded by the rhythmic clacking of wooden abacus beads.

He does not know when the thought of the threat fades from his mind, but it does, and Tobirama wakes one day with no worrying qualm about the Uchiha asleep beside him, and his mind is wiped clean from anxiety over hidden kunai coming to slash his neck open in the night.

* * *

Tobirama accomplishes some small miracles for himself in this partnership, as he comes to call it inside his head. He has always prided himself for being the more logical of the Senju brothers, willfully discarding emotions for the sake of accomplishing his missions and reaching his goals, but with the Uchiha he feels more of his youth returning even as his years advance. He feels at ease showing affection, manifested in those drawn out hot baths with his lover – and in this, he does not also know when he starts using that word; it springs naturally in the heart and in the mind, to be whispered from the lips – or sitting by his koi pond with his lap occupied by Madara's cats. He feels more at ease with himself, as he claims his lover's lap, his fingers twining with the strands of that dark hair as he brings it to his lips, and he notes the scent of distantly burning fire alongside something uniquely Madara, something he can't explain.

The first time he laughs over something Madara says, he's completely off-guard, and he laughs and laughs and laughs even as the Uchiha looks at him as if he's lost his head, and the tears spring from his eyes. He has never laughed like this, and it is absolutely freeing, and Tobirama feels that he has transcended everything and reached the skies.

* * *

The greatest threat to their joint progress comes with the news that Hashirama has been killed in battle. Tobirama is not spared a moment to grieve for his brother, for in the daze of that void he finds the responsibility of the Hokage thrust upon his unwilling hands, and he's facing the whole of Konoha as they welcome the start of his rule, his face carved onto the solid rock. He does not look at it; refuses to, decides he does not need this office and the responsibility it entails – all he wants is to live out the rest of his days with his Uchiha, in quiet, and perhaps if they were both lucky they could fade like candles going slowly out, in serenity.

Grief consumes him, and in the haze of his loss, Tobirama finally understands the same pain he had inflicted upon his lover, and as his understanding grows deeper with every teardrop he refuses to shed, he feels sorry, so sorry, so sorry for Izuna's death. He knows it was war, knows that if it wasn't Izuna it would have been him, yet he still says his litany of apologies into the shadowed recesses of his study, where he writes with feverish abandon, completing his work on the forbidden jutsu to revive the dead.

The day comes that Madara brings an end into his forced isolation. Curtains are thrown back and Tobirama shrinks from the sun, and his lover screams at him, and they fight over his notes, and he scrambles like a wild animal cornered, and their scuffle increases until actual blows are exchanged. Madara wrests the scroll from his hands and destroys it as he watches, and the sound of the tearing paper returns Tobirama into reality, and he cringes from the blooming bruises he inflicted upon the Uchiha.

_I'm sorry—_

_I'm sorry, I'm sorry-  
I hurt you, I'm sorry-  
Forgive me.  
Forgive me.  
I'm sorry. _

He wraps his arms around his lover, now his own anchor, and he lets out the grief he wouldn't let the world see, and as he weeps he knows he can't continue like this – the village needs him now, and this man too, and he has to be strong and lead everyone else, further into that dream that Hashirama and Madara made into reality.

* * *

The beginning of the end starts when he receives news that Sarutobi Sasuke, of all people, excluded Madara from a council assembly when he'd been absent for the two-week Kage summit in the Hidden Sand. This pisses off Tobirama in more ways than one; the rest of the village has refused to see that Madara is no longer a threat; has never been for a long, long time. The distrust is misplaced, the discrimination undeserved, and yet, despite his best efforts, the village refuses to share his view and walks on eggshells around his lover.

His lover's recovery from the darkness has inspired him – if Madara could pull himself from the brink with sheer strength, then the Uchiha can as well, and with this in his mind Tobirama created the Konoha Military Police Force, on the firm belief that the Uchiha need a single and constant positive goal to focus on as they work their way around the handicap of their kekkei genkai.

But this does not dissuade the worries of Sarutobi Sasuke and the rest of his cabinet; the mission has failed in their eyes the moment Tobirama found himself in love with the Uchiha he was supposed to keep in the village. Now that he is Hokage, Madara's manipulation of him cannot be discounted; they insist he is blinded by his love and that he's doing the Uchiha's bidding – and god forbid, someone even had the gall to suggest that he might be under the influence of a genjutsu.

That is the first time Tobirama raises his voice in a village council meet.

* * *

At home is the only place he finds peace, at the sight of the fuzzy terrors that are their cats and the serenity of his fish as they swim in the pond. It's as if this three-floor house is another world inside the world of Konoha, and it is here Tobirama still finds the heart to smile every time he sees his lover welcoming him home.

In the midst of kisses and that dark hair spread onto the pillows, as Tobirama buries himself deep inside that undying flame, working steadily to both their pleasurable end, it's here that he achieves true peace as golden as the sun, as his cold chakra twines with Madara's flaming blaze.

In the silent darkness of their room, holding the Uchiha close, Tobirama decides he wants out – out of his position, out of this village, just _out_ so they can leave, take the cats and the fish and this man who's come so far, find someplace quiet and live their days out with just each other for company.

_The end that I want_, he thinks to himself. _The only end that I want. _

* * *

The bloody murder of the Hidden Cloud's Gold and Silver brothers seals the village council's opinion that his lover has never made progress, that with him, Madara is more unstable and unpredictable. This powers the unanimous vote that they cannot serve together in a single squad once the hostilities start in what would be later known as the Great War. Tobirama feels weariness deep inside his bones, and his steps are slow as he walks home, to tell Madara the news that they cannot be in the same squad when they leave once sunrise comes.

Madara receives the news in silence, hands calmly holding his teacup. Tobirama removes the cup from those hands and moves them to his face, relishing the small tingling they make against his self-inflicted scars. The threat of war has made him afraid, afraid for this man and all that he has accomplished over the years – and he knows that he must survive, go home alive and join his lover again, and when the war is over they're leaving the village behind.

_But the world never works how you want it to. _

Madara's touch on his cheek lingers warmth channeled through gloved fingers, and he watches his lover leave with his own squad. Tobirama's senses are on overdrive, and he looks at Konoha's gate and the village within for the last time, and he etches everything into his memory.

Then he too, leaves.

It would have been the simplest solution, to let one of the children make themselves the decoy so he and the rest could go home to the village. Tobirama knows it would spare the village that great threat returning, knows it would spare Madara the pain he has never deserved, and yet, _yet_, he cannot bring himself to give away the duty that has been his the moment Hashirama perished. It is the most difficult decision of his life so far, and his last.

As Hiruzen Sarutobi and his teammates make their escape, Tobirama revels in the silence of an eternity, and he spreads out his awareness, reaching that blaze still twined with his life force, and he caresses it gently, as if he's pressing kisses onto familiar eyelids.

_Good-bye, my love. _

He meets his end like he's always supposed to be – facing his foes, head unbowed even as his life flees from his grasp, and he sees Madara's hair dancing under the sunlight and hears his laughter, and he feels that warmth reaching for him, reaching—

* * *

**.Epilogue**

He devised Edo Tensei with only the accomplishment of the mission in mind. But when he comes to and realizes he's been on the receiving end of his own jutsu, Tobirama instantly regrets allowing the summons the ability to sense out others' presences. As he stands there with his brother, with Saru and the Fourth Hokage listening to this Orochimaru and another young Uchiha who resembles Izuna, he _feels_. Feels the familiar surge of that fire of a chakra signature, miles away.

Tobirama only feels regret.  
Deep, deep regret that he never had the gall to be selfish, to spare the world from a madman's rage.

As he tells Sasuke Uchiha of the truth of his clan – of loving so great and, by reciprocity, hating so great, a distant image dances in his dead man's memory – unruly hair, a smile, eyes freed from the curse of hatred.

There is nothing more tragic than knowing just how far Madara Uchiha has recovered, and how it had taken his own death to destroy all that progress. If Tobirama only had the courage to be selfish, just that once, just that one time—

* * *

"_Someday, somewhere - anywhere, unfailingly, you'll find yourself, and that, and only that, can be the happiest or bitterest hour of your life_."  
- Pablo Neruda


End file.
